


inside friend

by messwithlove



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Amputee Eddie Kaspbrak, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Quarantine, References to Depression, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messwithlove/pseuds/messwithlove
Summary: “I’m at peak freshness, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Richie sniffs, rolls his ankles to make the bones pop and crack. Eddie, for his part, bites at the meat of Richie’s pec through his t-shirt. “Ow. I mean, silver linings, right? I could be somewhere horrible on tour and not here with you, like—like Cedar Rapids. Or Fort Lauderdale.”Or, Eddie and Richie quarantine together.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123





	inside friend

**Author's Note:**

> quaranfic! quaranfic! quaranfic! this one is for alyce who had nothing but good and enticing things to say about love and friendship and trauma when i asked her about clowntown, and then let me consume fanon and yell at her about it until i was finally in a place emotionally and mentally to watch it. (elections don't win themselves!)
> 
> this... technically lives in a bigger universe i've been toying with? we'll see if that pans out.

“Honey, I’m home,” comes Richie’s voice from the foyer. The clicking of Alexis’ nails on the floor heralds his approach to the kitchen, like a tiny fur demon shaking maracas.

“Hands, please,” Eddie says from his spot at the breakfast bar, not looking up from his computer. From the corner of his eye he can see Richie’s face mask is still on—the one Bev sent him, little raccoon faces on it. “Did they have the macadamia milk? I swear everything I like gets discontinued.”

Richie drops the bags on the floor in front of the fridge and beelines for Eddie, then immediately corrects course for the sink when Eddie shoots him a glare. _Hands_. “They had vanilla unsweetened but not original unsweetened,” Richie drops his mask in the little basket on the counter, rolls up his sleeves. “So I got vanilla and the plain Oatly.” He takes a couple of pumps of hand soap and begins humming Lizzo under his breath as he scrubs— _happy birthday_ got old, fast.

“Fuckers,” Eddie sighs, schedules the email he’s been drafting to go out at 8 tomorrow morning. He can’t be fucked to deal with this project anymore today.

“Are we still doing the Clorox wipedown?” Richie asks, and Eddie shuts his computer, hops off his stool.

“FDA says it’s not really necessary,” Eddie offers, leaning down to start taking the frozen stuff out.

“Okay. But I still can’t put the bags on the counter?” Richie makes a show of leaning down, hand braced on his lower back, low, loud groaning, to fish the oat milk out of its bag.

“You still can’t put the bags on the counter,” Eddie confirms. Alexis tucks her face into a bag, sniffs at a bundle of green onions. Richie groans, again. “Oh, yes, it’s the end of the world.”

“My bones are made of... something really brittle. Dead leaves? Saltines?” Richie holds the oat milk carton with both hands, heaves it onto the counter, pants loudly.

“Osteoporosis isn’t a joke, Richie,” Eddie rolls his eyes, opens the freezer to start a delicate game of tetris with boxes of Hot Pockets, a pint of fudge brownie ice cream.

“Alexis Neiers, if my spine crumbles I’m leaving you my Birkins,” Richie scoops up the dog and she barks at him, thrilled for any sort of attention. “Please take good care of the Valentino gowns.”

Eddie nudges past them to bend down and dig around inside another bag. Ooh, ravioli. “Wanna eat these for dinner? We still have like half a jar of marinara left.”

“I wanna eat _that_.” Eddie preemptively rolls his eyes as he stands back up, holds up the package. “Oh, for _dinner_? I was thinking sandwiches for dinner since I got the ciabatta you like, but sure.”

“You can eat this later if you let me have five minutes of peace for once in my life,” Eddie offers. Richie sets the dog on the counter and reels him in with both hands on Eddie’s ass, and Eddie can only sigh, snake his arm around Richie’s neck. “If I’m not letting you put the groceries on the counter why the _fuck_ would you think you can put the dog on the counter?”

Alexis barks, and Richie kisses him.

;

“Listen, all I’m saying is The Princess Switch transcends its holiday theme to be a universally great modern romantic comedy,” Richie presses. There’s a crinkle in his eyes Eddie recognizes; fuckery afoot. He digs his heel into Richie’s thigh, keeps flipping through a row on screen titled _Critically Acclaimed Documentaries_.

“You saw it a _month_ ago, Richie. Here, how does this sound? You like cults.”

“I like Vanessa Hudgens,” Richie insists. “Let’s rock paper scissors for it.”

Eddie points the remote at him. “You always cheat at rock paper scissors!”

“How—no, wait, let’s get into this. Okay.” Richie covers his mouth with his hands, very obviously hiding a smile. To his side, Alexis whines about not having her belly scratched anymore. “How do I cheat at rock paper scissors—famously a game of chance?”

“You fucking rig it every time. You’re not allowed to look at me, you depraved fuck.”

Richie shoves Eddie’s feet off his lap. Before Eddie can protest, Richie’s crawling into his space, shoving his face into Eddie’s neck, draping his entire body over him and going limp. “I can read your mind by looking at you? That’s kinda hot.”

Eddie gets his hand in Richie’s hair and tugs. “You wish.”

“I _do_ wish,” Richie nods, rubbing his scruffy cheeks into the exposed skin of Eddie’s neck, the bit of shoulder peeking out from the stretched-out neck of one of Richie’s t-shirts. “Will you watch The Princess Switch with me if I give you a blowjob?”

“I’ll watch Love, Actually with you if you give me a blowjob,” Eddie offers.

“Not on Netflix anymore,” Richie mumbles, presses an open-mouthed kiss to Eddie’s neck.

Eddie’s breath catches. “Amazon?”

“What about the rule? We were already looking on Netflix,” Richie reminds him, nips at his collarbone. “It’s your rule, Spaghetti man.”

“Easy A is on Netflix,” Eddie sighs. “You love Stanley Tucci.”

“I do love the Tooch.” Richie has managed to sneak a hand between them to cup Eddie through the front of his boxers. At this point, Eddie’s not sure they’ll even get to a movie tonight.

“It’s so hot when you talk about other men while you’re trying to seduce me,” Eddie’s voice cracks on the last bit. He’s pretty sure the remote ended up wedged between Richie’s arm and the couch cushions, by the way the screen’s just flipping through titles now. That, or they have a ghost, which would certainly spice things up.

“Is it working?” Richie raises his head to grin goofily at Eddie, gives his dick a squeeze. “Hmm, yes. Easy A, and a double feature when the new Princess Switch sequel comes out.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but lets himself be kissed anyway.

;

“Babe, you busy?” Eddie pokes his head into the office.

“Huh? Hi.” Richie looks up from his phone like a high schooler caught texting under his desk. He’s been trying to write a set for the better part of the month. Eddie’s been trying to let him work, gamely enduring every bit of absurdist garbage Richie’s thrown at him, poor renditions of Tiny Tim songs on a plastic ukulele included.

“I need a sous chef,” Eddie explains. He raises his residual arm, compression sock on. “I woke up kinda swollen?” In her bed between their two desks, Alexis wags her tail, looking up at Eddie.

“Bet you did,” Richie grins. (Eddie’s gone on an entire journey when it comes to Richie making jokes about his injury: from early sensitivity, to the eventual concession that it’s not like _not_ joking about his missing limb is gonna magically make it grow back, to this particular brand of humor becoming just as commonplace as quips about Eddie’s mom.)

“You’d fuckin’ know, little spoon,” Eddie shoots back.

“What’re we making, Chef Kay?” Richie doesn’t tidy his desk, leaves his notebook and laptop and pens scattered, sticks his phone in his hoodie pocket, and gets to his feet.

Eddie has to tiptoe, a little, to drop a kiss on Richie’s cheek. “Found a split pea soup recipe I wanna try in the pressure cooker. Calls for mirepoix.”

“Neat. How do I make that?”

Eddie leads the way to the kitchen where he’s already laid out the carrots, onion, and celery on a cutting board, other ingredients scattered on the counter. “Chop those?”

He’s tried the pre-chopped vegetables, frozen or otherwise, but he’s convinced they just taste better freshly chopped, and he’s been working with his therapist on asking for help when he needs it. Luckily, Richie’s always game to tag in.

“Teeny tiny or just tiny?” Richie’s already fetching a knife from the block as Eddie busies himself with emptying the bag of dry peas into a strainer to rinse.

“Tiny’s good. Anything new on the writing front? Alexa, volume down—shit, no, _Alexis_ , not you. Rich, for the love of god, peel that fucking carrot.” The dog circles Eddie’s ankles; the home assistant seems confused, briefly, pausing the music and eventually skipping to the next song. Eddie’s on a Taylor Swift kick.

Richie decides to start with the celery instead of the carrot, and Eddie suspects a nefarious plot to make him forget about peeling the thing. “I don’t just wanna write low hanging quarantine fruit,” Richie sighs, after a moment. Eddie runs warm water over the peas, wiggles the strainer in an attempt to pick out any debris. “Like, ‘ha ha, the president is endangering public health and my wife is becoming an alcoholic. Who else here has been in a Zoom meeting without pants on?’ I hate that shit.”

“You got a wife?” Eddie side-eyes him. He isn’t above feeding Richie easy lines. 

Richie’s been relatively subdued in the past few months of this: Eddie’s managed well enough by raising his SSRI dosage and adding a few extra therapy sessions, has kept up his running schedule. But he can’t begrudge extroverted, larger-than-life Richie his sadness after having to cancel his first tour back after Derry and the years of divorce and processing and recovery that followed.

Depressed or not, he’s still reliable as ever. “Your mother and I are very happy. What if I wrote a Taylor Swift parody album? _Eddie, I won’t make assumptions about_ —”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, actually,” Eddie hip-checks Richie on his way to the fridge, letting the peas drain in the sink. Richie fucking _knows_ that’s his favorite song on the new album. Eddie wants to eat this man alive. “Whole other guy made a career out of that already. You’d look stupid with long hair.”

Richie sighs loudly. “I wish you’d support my passions, Spaghetti.” Sure enough, he’s started chopping the carrot without peeling. Eddie has a choice between murdering him and throwing him in the instant pot, or grabbing the package of pancetta in the refrigerator. Ultimately, the instant pot is too small.

“I thought you wanted to rework some of the stuff you prepared for tour?” Eddie has to get crafty to tear into the vacuum-sealed package, holds the corner between his teeth and pulls the tab pinched between his fingers. At least the fucking ham is already chopped.

“It just feels too anachronistic now,” Richie plucks up a carrot coin, chews on it loudly. “I miss people. And things.”

“You have such a way with words,” Eddie smiles, dumps the ham in the sizzling pot. He steps behind Richie then to give him a gentle squeeze, drop a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Good news is you’re not on deadline. Come on, need the onion too.”

;

Bill’s in his huge, gorgeous, sunny backyard when he picks up the call, and Eddie almost immediately hangs up out of pure envy.

“Eddie! Hi!” He grins, turns so the sun isn’t quite hitting him directly in the face but delicately glinting off the silver streak in his hair. “Babe, it’s Eddie!”

“How come you two get gorgeous sun in Seattle and it’s absolutely disgusting here?” On screen, Bill’s holding his phone out to Mike, slightly off frame, waving from where he kneels in front of a tomato vine, a basket to his side. Outside Eddie’s window it’s overcast, clouds heavy and dark hanging over the city. “Hey, Mikey.”

“Hi, Eds!”

“It’s been great here all week,” Bill shrugs, plucks a cherry tomato off the vine and pops it in his mouth. Eddie is equal parts furious and very happy for him. “Wanna see the crop?”

“Yeah, hold on,” Eddie says, gets to his feet. Last he checked Richie was in the bedroom. “Book going okay?”

“I submitted the next couple of chapters,” Bill nods, runs his free hand through his hair. “I think I’m on pace to finish before Thanksgiving.”

Richie’s sitting in bed with his computer and he pauses whatever Seth Meyers clip he had on when he sees Eddie approach. Eddie climbs in next to him, hands the phone to Richie, and immediately takes Richie’s free hand in his own, interlocking their fingers. “Bill wants to show off Mike’s vegetables.”

Eddie claims the pleased flush across Richie’s cheeks as a personal victory just as much as he claims not having to hold the phone anymore _and_ getting to hold Richie’s hand. On screen, Mike’s holding up his basket proudly. “Hey, Richie! It’s harvest time!”

“Hello, cottagecore lesbians,” Richie grins. Eddie leans his head on Richie’s shoulder, looks up at his gleeful little smile as Bill asks Mike what the hell that even means.

Onscreen, Mike rolls his eyes. Bill seems to have handed him the phone. “It’s a compliment, honey, don’t worry. We’ve got radishes, sugar snaps, okra, and the tomatoes over here, unless Big Bill eats ‘em all.”

“Isn’t that what you grow them for?” Bill asks.

“We’ve got fairy tale eggplants over here, these still need another week or two,” Mike gestures at a bush with broad leaves and clusters of streaked fruit.

“Those look oddly familiar,” Richie quirks an eyebrow. “Eds, where have I seen those before?” Eddie bites his shoulder.

“Beep beep, dude. Kale’s back there,” Mike gestures at his beautiful curly kale, back near their sunny yellow shed.

Eddie sighs, pushes his cold toes against Richie’s shin. Richie strokes the back of his hand with his thumb, gentle. Last year they did Thanksgiving with Stan and Patty, and they were supposed to go to Bill and Mike’s this year. It probably won’t quite pan out. “Ugh. How much does it cost to overnight vegetables?”

“You’re so fucking boring, Eds,” Richie laughs. The only reason Eddie doesn’t shove a hand in his face is he only has one, and it’s already holding Richie’s. He is busy.

“I can probably look into that, if you mean it,” Bill offers. Mike’s handed the phone back. “Don’t think any of this—” he waves a hand vaguely “—will be cleared up by at the very least next Thanksgiving.”

“I dunno dude, I’m thriving over here and so’s the “Richie Tozier Is Over Party” crowd,” Richie yawns.

“I’m sure your dog’s thrilled.” Bill’s walking back towards the house, now. “Hey, I’m gonna let you go—I have a work call in a few. Don’t be strangers, alright?”

“We wouldn’t be if you looked at the group chat once in a while,” Richie pouts, then switches to his best bubbe voice. “You don’t come around anymore, bubbeleh.”

“The group chat is horrible for my productivity. Love you two,” Bill blows a kiss before hanging up.

Richie tosses Eddie’s phone to the foot of the bed, shoves his computer off to the bedside table, and draws Eddie into his lap, a hand on his hip, the other still tangled with Eddie’s. “You got quiet there, for a sec. Everything okay?”

Eddie lets himself flop against Richie’s chest, sighs. “I’m fine. Just, y’know.” Richie has started rubbing slow, broad circles on his back. Eddie loves him. “Feels like we were just hitting our stride when all of this started.”

“I’m at peak freshness, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Richie sniffs, rolls his ankles to make the bones pop and crack. Eddie, for his part, bites at the meat of Richie’s pec through his t-shirt. “Ow. I mean, silver linings, right? I could be somewhere horrible on tour and not here with you, like—like Cedar Rapids. Or Fort Lauderdale.”

“Those are perfectly fine places,” Eddie mutters. When Richie finally, blessedly slips a hand under his shirt to scratch at Eddie’s back, tracing the dip of his spine, Eddie melts. “Bev and I talked about surprising you on tour, did you know that? I just miss everyone.”

“I miss people, too,” Richie offers, softly. “Lizard brain’s fucking stoked I get to be with you all the time, though.”

Eddie raises his head at that to catch Richie’s mouth. He lets go, finally, of Richie’s hand just to shove Richie’s glasses up to rest on top of his head, leaning in close to deepen the kiss. This is the part that’s yet to get old: by now, kissing Richie is as familiar as putting on a mask on his way out the door, or scooping kibble into Alexis’ bowl as she yaps at his ankles, or slipping on a compression sleeve in the morning, even when he doesn’t plan on wearing his prosthesis. Eddie has plenty of new normals, these days. Ever since they all returned to Derry, he’s felt more like himself than he had in years.

They break apart for Richie to pull Eddie’s shirt up and off, hands all over Eddie’s chest and shoulders, and then Richie ducks to kiss across Eddie’s collarbones, open-mouthed. As much as it’d pain Eddie to admit out loud, Richie’s right: quarantine has been a good excuse to just _be_ together without the pressure of a drawn-out divorce, of physical therapy, of moving in together and the endless fucking ordeal of coming out to people over and over. Eddie gets to work from home, and Richie gets all the time he needs to write, and they’re fortunate to be housed and fed and comfortable enough to bask in each other’s constant presence. “I love being with you,” Eddie sighs, and it feels like giving in.

“We’d have a funky situation here if you didn’t,” Richie mutters into Eddie’s skin, rolls his hips up so Eddie can feel him at a respectable half-chub.

“Actually, hate this and hate you,” Eddie deadpans as he shoves Richie’s shirt up, sits back just enough to avoid getting elbowed in the face when Richie peels it off, tosses it on the floor.

Richie pouts. “But I took my shirt off.”

Eddie leans in to kiss under Richie’s ear while Richie’s hands wander across Eddie’s back again, down his sides. His fingertips are gentle over the smooth ridge of scar tissue on Eddie’s ribs. Eddie nips at his earlobe; Richie shivers. “I like you so much,” Eddie whispers there, like if Richie doesn’t see his face he doesn’t have to own up to it. Like they don’t already live together, share this very bed, have a dog together. It’s hard, sometimes, for Eddie to face all of the things he gets to share with someone he _likes_ as much as Richie now, without getting overwhelmed.

Richie’s skin is warm and inviting where Eddie trails his hand down his chest, dragging through coarse hair, down to his soft belly, even warmer past the waistband of his boxers. Eddie wraps a hand around him, and Richie hisses into his shoulder, heaves him closer with hands under Eddie’s ass now. “Love,” Richie gasps, as Eddie rubs a circle around the head with his thumb, presses against the slit.

“Can you grab the lube? If you knock me over I’ll kill you,” Eddie says, moves to kiss the sharp corner of Richie’s jaw.

“Nnngh.” Richie wraps an arm tightly around Eddie’s middle before leaning over to rummage through the nightstand drawer for the bottle, and Eddie can only hope and trust Richie won’t drop him off the side of the bed. It takes a moment, as Eddie pulls Richie’s waistband down, but when Richie settles back in he’s already flipped the cap open. “Here, let me?”

Eddie holds his palm open and Richie pours liberally, a little messier than Eddie would’ve done, himself, but it’s not the end of the world. The first real stroke is loose, more an effort to spread the slick than anything, but Richie gasps just the same. “Eddie, Eds. C’mere.”

Eddie leans in, kisses Richie slowly, and Richie does a decent job of shoving at the waistband of Eddie’s sweatpants blind and pulling his dick out, too. Eddie sighs into his mouth, shifts ever closer until the backs of their hands bump in between their bodies. Richie takes Eddie’s hand then, presses their palms together to take some of the lube in an odd little handshake that makes something flutter in Eddie’s ribcage.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie groans, breaks their kiss only to drop his chin against his own chest and watch Richie wrap his hand around both of them together. “Yeah, Richie—that’s good, like that.”

“Good,” Richie echoes, just as Eddie wipes his palm off on Richie’s stomach, brings his hand back up to Richie’s shoulder, and rolls his hips.

Eddie doesn’t feel the need to give Richie much direction beyond that: he doesn’t hold back on sighing and moaning and digging his fingernails into Richie’s shoulder. And just because it feels right and they’re in fucking quarantine and they missed out on making all kinds of stupid decisions together in college a solid two decades ago, Eddie finds his favorite spot on Richie’s neck and sucks a dark bruise that’ll stay there for at least a week.

“Pretty like this,” Richie pants, and Eddie bites over the bruise again, makes Richie hiss. “Lemme know when you’re close?”

Eddie nods into the crook of Richie’s neck, focuses on the feel of Richie’s hand and his dick, the messy friction of it. It’s sappy and stupid, but _god_ , even relatively average sex with someone he’s this in love with, with someone he’s loved for this long, punches the breath out of his chest in ways he didn’t know it could until he was fucking forty and fumbling through a new relationship that wasn’t that new at all.

“Yeah, Rich, c’mon,” Eddie shudders, bucking his hips into Richie’s touch. He moves away just enough to press their mouths together and brings his hand up to Richie’s cheek, still sticky between the fingers.

When Richie gasps, little _ah, ah_ s, Eddie swallows the sounds, bucks up, and comes.

Richie follows, and even in the haze a giggle bubbles up from Eddie’s throat at the feeling of Richie’s dick twitching against his. Richie groans and bites at Eddie’s lower lip, but Eddie can still feel him smiling.

“No laughing during sex,” Richie whines.

“I thought you wanted me to laugh at you more,” Eddie shrugs. He’s gonna regret it in three to five minutes, but for now he slumps against Richie’s chest, their stomachs sticking together with lube and come and a little sweat.

“I’m gonna write about you being mean to me in bed,” Richie warns—an empty threat, if the cautious, almost shy way he always asks if he can mention Eddie in his sets is anything to go by.

Eddie nuzzles into the hair curling at Richie’s nape and breathes him in. “Knock yourself out, dickhead.”

**Author's Note:**

> [you can be my inside friend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vh9Qy8qVLnA)
> 
> come fight me on twitter @messwithlove


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